"
"Butterflies that will swarm and shut us in from the weary world,"
said Ebbo. "And alack! when they go, what a turmoil it will be!
Councils in the Rathhaus, appeals to the League, wranglings with the
Markgraf, wise saws, overweening speeches, all alike dull and dead."
"It will scarce be so when strength and spirit have returned, mine
Ebbo."
"Never can life be more to me than the way to him," said the lonely
boy; "and I--never like him--shall miss the road without him."
While he thus spoke in the listless dejection of sorrow and weakness,
Hatto's aged step was on the stair. "Gracious lady," he said, "here
is a huntsman bewildered in the hills, who has been asking shelter
from the storm that is drifting up."
"See to his entertainment, then, Hatto," said the lady.
"My lady--Sir Baron," added Hatto, "I had not come up but that this
guest seems scarce gear for us below. He is none of the foresters of
our tract. His hair is perfumed, his shirt is fine holland, his buff
suit is of softest skin, his baldric has a jewelled clasp, and his
arblast! It would do my lord baron's heart good only to cast eyes on
the perfect make of that arblast! He has a lordly tread, and a
stately presence, and, though he has a free tongue, and made friends
with us as he dried his garments, he asked after my lord like his
equal.
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